Shattered Reflections
by pandorad24
Summary: "I don't know why I keep coming back. On one hand, it's my own personal torture; but, looking into the glass... it's almost like having you here again."


**Inspired by the amazingly beautiful and touching picture, _whole world in a mirror, _drawn by the user viria13 on the deviantART website (I would have given you a link, but stupid Fanfic won't let me), ****as well as the lovely lyrics below from a band I've taken a liking to.**

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><p><em>~ Shattered Reflections ~<em>

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><p>I'm the invisible man<p>

Who can't stop staring at the mirror

I want to make you as lonely as me

So you can get addicted to this

- Fall Out Boy, _Pavlove_

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><p>I don't know why I keep coming back. It's such a bittersweet addiction, standing here. On one hand, it's my own personal torture; but, looking into the glass... it's almost like having you here again.<p>

I don't know whether to call myself cursed or lucky to be your carbon copy. After all, you're the one I see every time I look into a mirror. It depends on your perspective, I guess. There are so many people that have lost loved ones from the war, that don't have this. I expect they move on after a while. Me? I never will. I don't think I want to try.

Mum says it's unhealthy; and I have to agree. But I'm addicted to this, Fred. I can't let you go.

I couldn't tell you how long I've been here today. An hour. Two. When my legs are tired of standing, I simply kneel down on the floor and continue to stare into the mirror.

I don't think I've ever looked at you like this, really looked at you, until you left. I map out every feature, study your face, analyze your movements. It's exactly as I remember you, Fred. Except for the eyes; the eyes are empty.

I want to be close to you. I want to reach out and feel you there, instead of the cold surface of the glass. I bring my hand up to touch you anyway, and I feel the tiniest tug at the corners of my mouth when I see you reach for me, too. Our hands meet, but your fingertips are cold. Just like they were that night, when I held your hand in the Great Hall... But you didn't feel it, did you, Freddie? Can you feel me now?

I see tears fill your eyes, as they often do when I come to see you. I'm sorry that these visits hurt you... They're hurting me too, Fred. But I can never find the will to leave this mirror for too long. I always come back. I know I shouldn't, I know I ought to move on. The family worries about me. But I feel so lost without you... so I find you here, every day, waiting for me. It's always the same routine, and it's slowly tearing me apart, piece by piece.

"I miss you, Freddie," I say, as the tears trace your face. "I miss your voice. And I miss your smile." That's one thing I never catch you doing in the mirror, and, to be honest, I think that's what I need to see most. I place my other hand over yours, and rest my forehead against you. This as close as we get, these days. I think the worst part of this is that I can't cross the barrier of glass and really be with you. "I miss you," I mutter again, as the tears stream down to the floor. I let them fall; because it's just you and me here, Fred. I could never hide from you. So why are you hiding from me?

Abruptly, a wave of agonized rage rushes over me. _Why are you hiding from me?_ Why did you do this to me, Fred? You said we would always be together. You promised! How could you leave me like this?

I let out a choked scream, and without thinking, I withdraw the wand from my pocket. Aiming it carelessly, I mutter an incompressible spell, and then the mirror is blasted apart, and I'm hit by a shower of glass. I barely notice - the dull physical pain is the farthest thing from my mind.

Looking up, my eyes meet yours in a shard of glass that still clings precariously to the frame. There is a trail of crimson running down from your hairline. You're bleeding, Fred. Suddenly, my mind flashes back to the last time I saw you; you were bleeding then, and smiling too, though I don't know why. That night, there was nothing left to laugh at anymore. You made sure of that. You made sure that I would never laugh again in my life.

The cracked piece of glass finally gives in and falls to the floor, and I'm left alone again in this room, the place where you and I have shared so many memories together. It's our old bedroom at the Burrow, littered with boxes of old prototypes and merchandise from the joke shop. One bed, mine, is blanketed by a layer of dust from disuse; ever since I returned home, I've found myself sleeping in your bed each night, clutching your sheets and breathing in the scent of them, finding both comfort and sadness in the subtle but undeniable evidence of you there.

Remember when we were younger, Fred, and I would have those horrible nightmares? I would always end up crawling in between your sheets, and you would welcome me without complaint, holding me close and muttering soothing nothings in my ear until I would fall asleep. Curling up in your bed again all these years later, I feel the same solace from the nightmare I've been living lately. That's what it feels like, with you gone. Just one endless, terrible nightmare, worse than any I've had as a kid; because this time, I know won't ever wake up.

Surveying the wreckage around me, I suddenly regret breaking the mirror. It's much too lonely in here.

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><p>Since the war, things have changed for the Weasleys. Mum hardly yells anymore, and she and Dad seem to have somehow gotten closer. Bill, Fleur and Charlie have been staying at the Burrow, and Percy visits often (though I think he's still wary of his welcome, even after Mum assured him that no one holds him responsible for Fred's death). Harry and Hermione are staying too, so it's a full house. Everyone's supporting one another, trying their best to rebuild the family after the crushing blow we've received.<p>

Of course, the changes in the rest of the Weasleys don't even begin to compare to what's happened to George.

He's thin. Very thin. He's been losing weight ever since the war ended. He just won't eat; he seems to have lost all interest in such things. His hygiene would have been given up as well, but Mum forces him to bathe and all the other necessaries, so his hair is just a mess and he wears the same clothes for long periods of time. He never smiles, and I can't remember the last time I heard him laugh. His eyes are empty and haunted, and he usually speaks in monosyllables. Some nights, I'll hear him crying in his room, something I'd never witnessed him do before Fred's death.

The changes are staggering, and to tell you the truth, I'm scared. Even more concerning than the physical differences is the isolation he puts himself through; he hardly ever leaves he and Fred's old bedroom, and when he does come down, it's hardly ever for more than a few minutes.

The most terrifying thing George has done had taken place just after the funeral; Bill and Charlie had come into the house to find him on the floor, surrounded by photographs of him and his twin, crying his eyes out. In his hand was a knife from the kitchen, and the blade had just begun to pierce is collarbone when Bill tore it from his grasp. That night, Bill and Charlie held him while the rest of us watched in horror, as George screamed at them to let him go, to just let him be with his brother again. He spent a couple days in the St. Mungo's psychiatric ward until he had calmed down from the episode.

That was a dark day. I think it made us all realize just how much George relied on Fred; and how broken he would become now that Fred was gone. It kills me to see how lost he is, how much he's hurting. I look for my old brother in him now, the one that used to laugh and joke at every opportunity, and all I see is the cracked, empty shell.

I had expressed my concerns to Hermione, and she said that she felt the same. She told me she would give anything now for him to go back to acting like the irresponsible goofball he used to be. Harry feels terrible, of course, always the first one to blame himself for every evil thing Voldemort and his followers have done to the wizarding world. The rest of the family just tries to show George as much love and understanding as they can, and I can see in everyone else's eyes that they're scared, too.

It's as I'm in the sitting room getting comfy on the couch with Harry that I hear a muffled scream and a crash from upstairs. Harry looks at me, his eyebrows furrowed with concern. "That sounded like..."

"George," I finish, disentangling myself from my boyfriend and jumping to my feet. I look back at Harry apologetically, but he just waves me off.

"It's alright, Gin," he says, "make sure he's okay."

I climb the stairs two at a time, and when I reach the twin's - er, George's - room, I knock urgently on the door. "George?" I call. "George, you okay?" There's no answer, so I open the door to find somewhat of a shock.

There, on the floor, is George, covered in blood and tiny bits of glass. The broken pieces of the mirror are strewn all around him, reflecting the light from the window and dappling the room with illuminated patches. George just stares at the mirror's empty frame, holding his wand limply at his side.

I walk slowly toward him, grateful I'm still wearing shoes from when I weeded the garden earlier so I don't cut my feet on the glass, and I kneel down to his level. "George?" I say softly. "George, what happened?"

It's a while before he acknowledges me. When he finally turns away from the empty mirror, I see that his eyes are pooling with tears.

"Ginny?" He says in a cracked voice. "I... I'm sorry... Ginny, I'm so sorry."

"For what, George?" I ask, brushing the ginger hair from his forehead to examine a particularly bad gash. With a grimace, I carefully pick out the shard of glass from the cut and toss it to the floor with the rest of the mess; George doesn't even wince.

"For scaring you," he replies. "I know I'm making things difficult for everyone, but... I can't let him go, Gin."

And with that, the tears begin to spill from his eyes, and it's breaking my heart to see him fall apart like this. Ever since I was little, I just accepted it as a fact of life that the twins never cried, never got upset. But lately, it seems as if George can't pull the pieces of himself back together for any length of time. He's just... broken. Completely broken.

Suddenly, the shattered mirror feels like a brutally accurate representation of what my brother has become. No hands would ever be able to piece it back together again, and they would just get hurt in the process. How could we have let him sink so low?

I pull my older brother into a hug, and he rests his head on my shoulder and just cries. I try to tell him that it'll be okay, but to be honest, I'm not sure if I can believe it myself. I'm at a total loss for words, so I just hold him close and rub his back comfortingly, doing my best not to choke up with him.

What happens now? What will our family do now that the war has torn the twins apart? Voldemort might as well have killed them both; then at least George wouldn't be suffering like this. He's in such a far-gone state that his soul is as good as dead anyway.

"Ginny?" George rasps, his face still buried in my neck.

"Yeah, George?"

"Fred always said that there was a laugh to be found in every situation," George says shakily, clinging to my shirt. "But, you know what? It's not funny anymore."

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><p><strong>Great. Now I'm sad all over again. *sigh* The movie was heartbreaking enough. I actually cried, if you can believe it.<strong>

**Well, as promised, I gave you guys some George action - I even threw in a little sibling love between him and Ginny. Actually, I've been wanting to do a post-Fred's death fic for a LONG time, but I finally got inspired with a plot that I liked, so I just ran with it.**

**Oh, yeah, and I almost forgot: if flYegurl is reading this, you have to update now. That was my motivation, so if you can find the time soon, a new chapter would make me a very happy Iggy fangirl. :)**

**Liked it? Review it! Comments and helpful criticism would be much appreciated.**


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